Bedroom Hymns
by Ninazadzia
Summary: Cato and Clove ignored the sexual tension for too long, and they finally indulge in the violent delights they both crave. M for smut.


**A/N: YE BE WARNED—**

**This fic is M rated for a reason, lovelies.**

Some background; Cato is the victor of the 69th Games, Clove is the victor of the 72nd Games. This is set right after Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour, leading up to the 75th Games.

The starting scene is set in a Capitol club.

_Bedroom Hymns_

By Ninazadzia

_The sweetest submission_

_Drinking it in_

_The wine, the women, the bedroom hymns_

_'Cause this is his body_

_This is his love_

_Such selfish prayers and I can't get enough_

~Florence + the Machine, **Bedroom Hymns**

XXX

"What if I told you that there was a way to incite rebellion?"

He pauses mid sip, looking from his champagne glass to Clove. Her words hang in the air, so he assumes he's heard right.

"I'd say you were crazy," he decides. "Or drunk. Or both."

"C'mon, Cato, we both mentored the Games last year."

"Yeah. And?"

"The girl from Twelve is causing all kinds of trouble." She kicks him from under the table. "Not that you needed any reminding."

Ahh, yes. That seems to hit a nerve. Clove didn't give a shit about Copernicus or Lucia, but Cato did, and much more than he cared to admit. She saw him fly off the handle when Everdeen killed both of them.

His face flushes. "No, I didn't," he says pointedly. "What, though? You think that just because she got around the one Victor rule, she's our Joan of Arc?"

"Not now. But she could be."

He laughs. "Get off whatever you're smoking, Clove."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm a ballerina."

She purses her lips. "What's wrong, Cato—scared of challenging the Capitol?"

His knuckles whiten as he clutches onto the arm of his chair.

"Even if we could stand up to them, which isn't a guarantee, _especially _not when it comes to Everdeen—what's the use? We're high profile people. We'd definitely die during whatever fantasy rebellion you're planning."

"You don't know that—"

"You can count me out. I'm not taking that risk."

She laughs. "What happened to the boy who volunteered for Hunger Games, huh?"

"That's different. I was fighting for District glory. I have no incentive to fight for the salvation of this . . . _broken _shithole."

Her eyes bear into his. She lowers her voice. "Snow hasn't whored you out yet, has he?"

Human-trafficking is no secret amongst the victors. Cato is surprised that this is only just coming up now, a full three years after Clove had won her Games.

"Of course he has. But I'd choose prostitution over death any day."

Clove leans in, so close that he could feel her breath against his ears. "I wouldn't," she whispers.

He shakes his head. "This is bullshit, Clove."

"Cato—"

"Do yourself a favor, and stop entertaining these self-destructive plans."

"Oh, you're one to talk about being self-destructive, you hypocritical _volunteer."_

"It takes one to know one," he says. He cracks his knuckles, hoping it would calm his simmering anger. Of course, he has no such luck. "If this is all you came to see me for, then I think that we're done here."

She glances him over once, twice, maybe three times. She finally nods and goes, "Alright. We _are _done here."

XXX

An hour later, when he hears her walk into his hotel room, he almost expects it.

His back is to her, so she can't see his lips curl up into a small smile, his anger towards her long gone. He pours himself his third glass of wine, the blood red liquid glistening as it hits the glass.

His voice breaks the air. "I thought we agreed that we were done here."

"I was talking about our conversation."

"Exactly." He turns around, facing her. "Which makes me wonder_—what _could you possibly want now?"

He fully takes in the sight of her, now under the stark, bright lights of his hotel. She isn't the petite, innocent looking girl he'd once trained with. No, the victor of the 72nd Hunger Games is anything _but _innocent. Her figure is equal parts lean and muscular. There's still a hunger in her eyes, but one that isn't the result of starvation.

When they'd met, that was all she was—a hungry, small child, looking for a way out.

To her credit, she's always been gritty; her size doesn't match her spirit. She was as vicious as the rest of the trainees, and what she lacks in height or weight, she makes up for in guts.

She isn't glamorous, and she isn't fabricated. And that's exactly what makes her so hauntingly beautiful.

"Are you going to pour me a glass, or what?"

He laughs as he takes another wine glass from the countertop. "Anything else I can get for you? A bubble bath, a back massage?"

He can't tell if she's rolling her eyes or seething. She snatches the glass from him the second he's finished pouring it, and she hungrily downs the wine. "More," she asks, shoving it back at him.

He wordlessly poured her another one. She drinks it instantaneously.

"So you're here to drink all of my liquor?"

"Nope." Another glass. She sets it down, placing her hand on the counter. She looks him in the eye; his knees threaten to buckle. "Prostitution over death, huh?"

"Yes."

"Really. I would've never guessed that, considering how big your ego is."

"Survival is my top priority now," he says to her. He takes another sip, savoring it before he said, "and if you can get past the price-tag, sex is sex, and I generally _like _sex."

"You're despicable."

"Oh, and you're not?"

"How are you _not _disgusted—"

"I never said I wasn't," he interrupted. "Damnit, Clove, what other way is there to look at it? I'm not going to dwell on how fucked up my sex life is."

She mutters it so quietly, he almost misses it. "But you're not screwing married old men, are you?"

The entire concept is difficult—and disturbing—to imagine. Clove isn't the kind of girl that likes _anyone_ coming too close to her, much less a middle-aged Capitolite.

"You're right," he says. "I'm not."

She looks him in the eye, daring him to say more. Nothing comes

After a minute, she turned on her heel and walks to the door. It doesn't occur to him that she's leaving—for _good_—until she stands in the doorframe.

"Clove."

She stops, but doesn't turn around.

"Look at me."

She does

Cato speaks before he can talk himself out of it. "Please tell me you've fucked someone who hasn't paid you."

"That's none of your goddamn business," she says. She pauses, then adds, "That means no. Asshole."

"Bullshit." He shakes his head. "What, you had no offers?"

"Intrusive, aren't you?"

"Because I find it hard to believe," he says, his voice perfectly level. "That a girl like _you_—" he reaches for the first button on his shirt, "wouldn't have any _real _takers."

Out of context, the action would seem innocent enough. The fabric falls back and reveals only an inch or two more of skin than it previously had—but the both of them knew _exactly _what it means.

Clove steps forward, her expression blank. "Of course I had offers," she says Another step. "But I knew none of them would be tough enough for me."

Another step. Cato's heart pounded.

"I knew that none of them could give me what I wanted."

That time, he's the one that takes a step forward. They stand, motionless, for a few seconds.

And then, she whispers, "But you can. Can't you?"

That's all it takes for him to lunge forward, to close those last few yards between them. His mouth comes crashing down on hers, and he hungrily steals the first real kisses he's had in months, maybe years. Clove meets him with that same hunger, that same fire; she knows what she's doing—_God,_ does she know how to kiss him—but he doubts that she's ever experienced anything _this real_ before.

He doesn't waste any time. He hoists her up, and even in his arms, they're lips don't break apart. He carries her to the bedroom, and roughly throws her onto the bed. His Capitol clients would've hated that; they didn't like to be manhandled. But Clove's lips and his barely separate, and the kisses become deeper and hungrier with every passing second. It isn't long before she takes the shirt off of him, pausing for only a minute, only a fraction of a second, to look at his bare skin.

He's worried she'll see how much his heart is pounding.

The moment's passed, and now it's _his _turn. He works her dress off over her head, and unbuckles her bra clasp. He sneaks a glance at her bare chest before focusing his attention on the only flimsy bit of fabric remaining. He savors the moment, and he slowly, carefully, pulls her panties down.

He sits back, breaking off their kissing. He stares, unapologetically, and feels himself harden.

_How _many times had he imagined this? _How _many years has it been since he'd first realized his undying attraction towards this girl, one of his fellow trainees? He couldn't remember when—the only thing he knew for sure was that he'd gone too long, _way _too long without her.

"Fuck," is the only word he says.

She wordlessly presses her lips back onto his. She undoes the zipper of his pants, and pulls off his jeans, his boxers. He kicks off his shoes and socks himself, and the thought barely crosses his mind, that he's _finally _stark naked, in bed, with Clove Furhman.

"Please tell me you have a condom," she gasps.

He reaches over a few feet and pulls the packet from his nightstand. He seamlessly rips it open and hands it to her. The latex is worked from the tip up to his shaft. She works slowly, carefully, and it's enough to make him want to scream. She finishes, but doesn't pull her hands away. Instead she slowly starts to pump his member between her palms, gaining speed ever so gradually, _never _taking her eyes off of his. He watches, breathlessly, as she lowers herself onto the ground, then takes his entire length into her mouth. It appears that the teasing with the condom was only a warmup, because now she was moving at full speed, thrusting her mouth up and down his cock so fast that it's almost violent.

_Almost violent._

Who's he kidding—this is Clove Fuhrman.

He can expect nothing less than violent.

He starts to cry out, and he can't control it. She opens her eyes and looks up at him, savoring the moment. She pulls away, and brings him back to up to level. She opens her mouth to say something, but his lips come crashing down on hers before she has the chance.

"Cato—" she manages. She's muffled out by their heavy breathing, their kissing, their closeness.

Still, he very clearly hears her say, "I want you to fuck me harder than you've ever fucked anyone before."

He doesn't hesitate. Without warning, he shoves his member inside of her, so fast and unexpectedly that she cries out in pain. For a minute, he worries that he'll have to bear with more wincing and blubbering. And then he remembers who he's fucking.

Clove enjoys pain more than anything else.

So he delves deeper. He thrusts in and out, all the while never letting his lips leave hers, never forgetting the words she'd spoken. _Fuck me harder than you've ever fucked anyone before._

Oh, how long had this been coming? How long had the sexual tension existed, and how long had they been denying themselves _this—_the violent delights they both craved? Months, years?

Most likely the latter, he realizes. Because it had _always _been her. Even before Snow had sold his body, back when he was fucking local bombshells and the girl next door, his thoughts would wander to _her._ He'd think of the younger, fiery girl in his academy, the one who had taught him how to throw a knife, the one that he'd beaten to a pulp in a sparring match.

The only girl he'd ever actually respected—at least _before._

It's a strange thing to think, just as he's about to come, but the thought nags at him. He can't let it go unsaid. It _must _be said.

"Faster," she whispers. She says it again, this time louder. Her nails dig into his back.

"Fuck, Cato," she cries.

In spite of how close he is and how hard it is to focus on anything, he does as she says. They both cry out at the same time, riding out the same wave of pleasure for a moment. She looks him in the eye, and it's enough to make his heart feel like it's about to explode out of his chest.

She shoves him off of her, finally, and the two lie next to each other. They don't speak. They don't move. They simply stare at the ceiling, letting the gravity of what they'd done sink in.

"You're a good fuck, Ludwig."

He laughs. It's such an understated, ludicrous thing to say.

"I'm only going to say this once," he starts. He can feel himself swallow his pride. "And if you tell anyone, I _will _kill you."

She turns her head, and looks at him. He can feel her stare bear into his skull. But he continues to look at the ceiling.

"I've always wanted you," he says. "Ever since I first met you."

"You're not serious."

"Oh, trust me, I am."

She snorts. "Fucking hell, I was twelve."

"And I was fifteen—your point?"

"I was a kid, Cato."

He shakes his head. "You were never a kid—at least not to me." He turns and faces her, and starts talking before he can stop himself. "When I look at you, I've never seen a kid, or a piece of ass. I see a fighter. I always have."

A devious smile plays on her lips. "Are you complimenting me?"

He wraps his arms around her. "No." He runs his hands up and down her body. "I'm telling you that I've never felt this way about anyone before. And it's eating me alive."

XXX

**A/N: **It's been aaaaaages since I've cranked out a one-shot this fast. I really hope you guys liked this, I kind of just got inspired and rolled with it :D

Anywho, this was originally supposed to be part of a much, much longer multi-chap. Let me know if you guys would like me to expand on this one-shot, because the more I let the idea fester in my head, the more I like it :P

I love love loveeeee you for reading this.

xx Nina


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